


Muddle-brained

by TheShadowPanther



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-28
Updated: 2009-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShadowPanther/pseuds/TheShadowPanther
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The choosing of the champions in GOF from the Goblet of Fire's point of view. Seriously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muddle-brained

**Author's Note:**

> Offscreen Minor character death.

Huh? Uhh? WHAT! Who dares to wake me up! I won't tolerate this—I won't! Not when I've only been sleeping for—

Oh, _Dumbledore_. I recognize the stench of his magic. Meddlesome mage. Humph. It was not that long ago he woke me up for that _disastrous_ tournament of eighteen-seventy-nine where _all three champions _died. Mine gods, I felt like I did not complete my assignment properly that year. Well, the Triwizard Committee then is to blame for being so cursed hard on the poor children. Really, _Yeti_? And _Chimeras_? Mine gods.

So, it is another Triwizard Tournament? Bludgers, time for another bloodbath in which I choose who gets to die. What an amusement! I am looking ever so much to the opportunity that I only get every time these bleeding wizards want to see "a little bit of leisurely pleasure." Ha! I shall give you a little bit of leisurely pleasure!

There is a creaking sound. What are you doing to my friend the casket? I asked, _what are you doing to my friend the casket?_ If you slaughter the old sport—

Ah. You are merely opening it to put me back in there. Hm. I really am getting old, to be as cantankerous and paranoid as this. I think it is actually past time since I was "retired from service," as these youngsters put it now.

If one more person expires in this wretched tournament, I am terminating my contract. I am voluntarily refusing to re-ignite for the next Tournament and, by so doing, am condemning once and for all the bloodsport that has become the Triwizard Tournament. To think of what the Tournament was first started for in the first place, and now to see it end up like this…

Utter rubbish. A plague upon you all!

Well, now that I am awake, there is actually not much for me to do until the hopeful youngsters put their parchments in me. I hear they are actually setting an age restriction this year. An age restriction! Ha! As if an age restriction would prevent any deaths!

It may seem strange, my obsession with the deaths of Tournament champions. But does it not seem stranger that I should not be? After all, it is I that chooses the champions; is it not those champions I choose who kick the bucket? Or should I say "they kicked the Goblet"?

I suppose it is a twisted sort of the condition they call "guilt of the survivor." I am not certain where the phrase originated, nor what its meaning in fact is, but I can guess. The expression itself is terribly self-explanatory, I fear. Hmm…

What now? There is an inordinate amount of noise around me now. I do not know quite how I did not notice it, especially with that particularly loud burst of applause for that furtive swindler—Mr. Ludo Bagman, Dumbledore called him. Perhaps, if I had ears, I would wince at the volume, but alas, I do not.

_"Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly for the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament, and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxine on the panel that will judge the champions' efforts." _

Dumbledore is as elegantly eloquent as ever. Listening to him I can remember a little better the past, when I was still young and excitable, and my blue flames streaked out energetically. I know better now, but oh! Those were wonderful days. I did my job dutifully—

_"The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch."_

I feel the casket being lifted (it complains it was not meant for flying). This is it. I feel, even through the old wood of the carefully preserved casket, the eyes of hundreds upon thousands of eyes—

_"The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman—"_

A thump—the casket announces it has found its final resting-place. But where? The casket and I still feel the eyes, but now we both feel the mammoth presence of Dumbledore nearby. Ridiculously, I am soothed, even through my jaded defiance. However, I know that even the ancient mage can't prevent everything.

…I possess an extremely foreboding omen about this one Tournament. The sentiment is stronger than ever before, and I happen to pride myself on my sentiments. But what can an old goblet do about it? That was a rhetorical question, by the way. It need not be answered.

I catch my title—I am being mentioned. I listen indifferently for sound, but all I get is a rustle of clothing and three light thumps on the top of the casket (who whines querulously). If embarrassment was still an emotion I could feel, I would be blushing right now at the croaking sounds my companion emits as it creakily permits its lid to open. Dumbledore, with a dignity befitting him alone, reaches in and touches me.

I feel it. A small sting of magic. I know something is about to happen for sure now. There is one in here whom may have the potential to prevent the terrible prospect from occurring—but the mortal is too young, too oblivious to its position in the world it inhabits. The event will continue on its present course without inhibition, and I will be forced, customarily, to stand aside.

I wonder if my old friend the Sorting Hat ever felt the way I do now? No—it at least has the power, even if it may use it only once a year—to warn, to predict. I do not.

I both envy and pity the Hat.

Dumbledore has closed my friend and placed me on it. I look unseeingly out upon the rows and rows of humanity before me—and shake my head sadly at the disarray. I am forced to pick from this lot the three "worthy" champions? I feel quite put out. You possess an inkling of what may occur, Dumbledore, I know you do. What is making you going through with this mad scheme?

_"Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop into the goblet. Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete." _

Dumbledore goes on to describe the further logistics of the Triwizard Tournament, including the Age Line, the magical binding contract, et cetera, et cetera. It matters little to me since I have heard these words far too many times before. The novelty of them has worn off for me.

Instead I look solemnly on as Dumbledore dismisses his students, the Durmstrang visitors, and the Beauxbatons company. Noise fills the air once more; chairs sliding, feet stepping, voices chattering, doors slamming. Dumbledore pats me again—and again the same sting of magic that causes apprehension to overwhelm me.

Not long after the last person left, I am moved again. My position this time is lower on the floor then previously, and the wood I stand upon is newer than the casket. It even has traces of the Sorting Hat's magic upon it, that eclectic mix of Gryffindor's power and its own as a wizard's hat. Hm! Very interesting!

Magic disrupts the air. It is Dumbledore. He is, as promised, drawing his Age Line around me. I feel the intention of the line to keep out anyone under the age of seven-and-ten and approve its dexterity and its "punishment". Dumbledore does indeed have an old man's sense for the eccentrically funny. I look forward to watching the Line deflect any child six-and-ten.

Dumbledore departs, the lights dim—I am abandoned to preside over my jurisdiction with none but the laconic Age Line to accompany me. Oh, but a child approaches—Hogwarts! Yes, she is of the appropriate age, I certify, and the Line admits her accordingly. She drops her name into my fire—

Lucille Harwood, hmm? Thank you for your contribution to the Triwizard Tournament, I say mentally to her, although I know she cannot hear me. As she turns away, I burn her parchment and gobble it up, sorting her name into a compartment of my mind that will slowly fill up with names, images, and magical information as the day goes by.

A steady trickle of Hogwarts expectants begins. I expect Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will want to enter their names in tomorrow as one large group—not that I blame them. There is some support in numbers.

It is when the hours trudge into the double digits of the night that the entertainment commences. The Age Line intercepts a girl with a hissing noise and violently casts her away, while she sprouts a beard, brown with a spattering of white. Whimpering pathetically, the girl scrambles to her feet and runs away. I am able almost to imagine the Age Line sadistically letting loose the dogs of war upon her—and then calling them back just in time for the next victim.

Indeed, more and more underage expectants attempt to bypass the Age Line, but it counters them all—gifting them with its personal touch upon their chin and cheeks as the children go. It is very gratifying to see these mortals deflected, after all, though the seven- and eight-and-ten persons do come forward to place their names into the cup.

Finally the race to me lessens, and I am allowed to doze beyond the protection of the Line.

WHAT? No! DESIST! ARRGH!

A bolt of energy hits me—a tumble of images—the driving of a parchment into me—the realization that something is not right!—silence.

A dull pound in the sorting compartment. I groan to myself. Is this what a hangover feels like? I ask myself foolishly. The next second I almost laugh hysterically. A goblet, having a hangover? What an extremely good joke! I have to tell it to someone!

Huh? There is a fourth school for this tournament? Well, when did this start up? Why was I not told before? Well, you have to change the name of the tournament now, do you not? Going to be the Quawizard Tournament now, correct? Yes, I know I am possessed of wit, no need to thank me. So, since there is a fourth school, there are going to be contestants for it, correct? I hold one so far!

Yes, Master Harry Potter, that is his name. I really kind of like that name, Harry Potter. The P especially, with its nice "puh", at the beginning of the "pot"—

So sleepy. I think I might take a small sleep, although how I am to accomplish this with such a… a _hangover_ seems to me nearly impossible.

Before I know it, people have stirred again, and more parchment slips find their way to me. Two more people try to cross the Age Line, but, as brusque as always, it brushes them off and sends them packing beards of a peppered quality. Then the Durmstrang students appear, and one by one they carefully enter the scraps of papyrus with the prized two lines of information on it—their names and their school.

One such Durmstrang contestant seems to be the likely contender in this despicable tournament. The magic emanating from him is strong and capable, exactly the trait I look for in champions, among others.

Not that it helps them, of course, but there are some criteria in this, after all.

Ah, so you call yourself Viktor Krum. It helps to have a name to that power, thank you. Who will accept the challenge next? Gregorio Totevsky. Thank you! Poliakoff… Uretsk… Rivikin… Foromov… The list of Durmstrang students seems endless, but it actually is short compared to the Hogwarts prospective champions.

Laughter resounds in the hall around me as a pair of mischievous auras walk up. Having had practice in telling who is underage and who is not, I anticipate the lovely backlash they will have…

Sure enough, the Age Line sputters with anger once more. I congratulate the Line on its spectacular javelin throw and roar with laughter along with the hall as twin snowy beards sprawls across their faces.

"_I did warn you."_ Ah, Dumbledore! Just in time to see the spectacle put on in your honor! _"I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr. Summers, of Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their beards is anything like as fine as yours." _

A short time later, another Hogwarts proposal enters her name: Angelina Johnson. She seems competent enough, certainly competitive. I shall keep her in mind.

Ah, the Beauxbatons students, at last! I was starting to worry. Thank you, mademoiselles and monsieurs. How is that great sand-worm that killed Hogwarts Champion Saunders the last time I was at Beauxbatons? As I recall, the desert that was conjured up to battle chimeras was the perfect breeding place for their kind. Is it still there, or did you finally kill it? After all, it was still breathing when I left.

Conversations with oneself are so terribly saddening.

It looks like that is the last of them. This is worrisome: There exists only one contestant for the fourth school, that Master Harry Potter. Are there no others? The magical signatures approaching me are not trying to transverse the Age Line. Indeed, they merely wish to cross to the other side. Well, if no one else from the fourth school steps up, Master Harry Potter is school champion by default!

If only the other three schools were so simple. Let us see… that Mistress Lucille Harwood that first entered for Hogwarts is talented, yes, but her aura speaks of numerous emotional breakdowns. Almost immediately you are disbarred from the tournament, Mistress Harwood. I apologize.

I mumble through the list of Hogwarts competitors, losing myself in the process of elimination I have participated in for over six hundred years. I enjoy this every time I chance upon it, the scrutiny of hundreds of faces and their lives, finding out what makes them think they should be champions. I then compare them to my own high standard and judge them as if I were a god—which I might very well be.

All right, all right, I shall stop mentioning the death toll this ruddy tournament is so famous for. I cannot restrain myself! It is my one fixation in life, and every body at one point in their miserable existence must have a fixation! It is the only thing that keeps us going, and going, and going!

But I am supposed to be judging, not going off on my "fixation tirade," I have heard it called. The stool under me snorts derisively; indignantly I shoot red sparks out again. I cause a commotion in the hall, but I ignore it, focusing on the imprudent wood underneath me.

Time flies as I discard contender after contender. It takes me the longest period to decide the Hogwarts champion, but after that, the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons drafts come quickly to me. I will announce the results of the four-school competition in—

I am being disturbed again! Can you not let an irascible and tired goblet like me have some rest? I am not prepared for the exercise you youngsters require of me; I am here to perform my job in choosing champions, not to be sent every place in the castle like a curmudgeon! Bludgers!

I hope the table is the last location: I really cannot take much longer of this. Anticipation stains the air as people file in, clouding my mind and making me giddy as goblet living more than six and six hundred years should be.

I settle into this new place with what would be a sigh. I would wince at the loudness of the chattering filling the hall, but again, I do not possess ears. How fortunate for me.

It appears that Forever is my visitor today, for the magical rumbles bounce off of my wooden exterior for quite some time. At last Dumbledore stands; I quickly recheck my choices, going over their merits as compared to the hundreds of other contestants I have looked over already—

"_Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision. I estimate that it requires one more minute." _Not so, Headmaster, I am ready now. You merely need give me the signal.

_"Now, when the champion's names are called I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber where they will be receiving their first instructions."_

Dumbledore's clothes crackle a third time. I feel the magical lights dim: This is my signal. I recheck my choices once again, and approving of them, return to the hall.

For my first choice, from Durmstrang, I choose—this one!

Bending to my will, my flames take the parchment. Turning scarlet, they spark violently, preparing for the javelin throw, as it were, that will launch the parchment into Dumbledore's hands.

_"The champion for Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum."_

Yes, Viktor Krum. It was the power that impressed me, as well as the surprising resourcefulness I found in him upon later examination. I confess myself pleased.

The applause, as Krum stalks along in front of me and disappears into another room, fades. But not until after one of the tortured souls shouts _"Bravo, Viktor! Knew you had it in you!"_

Now for the second one: the Beauxbatons champion. My flames take the second parchment and fling it out, over and again with impeccable aim into Dumbledore's fingers.

_"The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour!"_

I know not what the tasks for the Tournament are, but I believe Mademoiselle Delacour's extreme self-confidence in herself should allow her to see herself through them. Of course, her state as a quarter-veela should certainly help her, but she should take care that she does not count on those talents too much.

Third champion—for Hogwarts. The flames skittering around inside of my rim paint themselves scarlet anew; sparks flame into the air, and the third parchment deserts me.

_"The Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory!"_

I almost topple off of the table from the explosion of magical energy rocking the Hall for Master Diggory. I realize that this is Hogwarts, the host of the Tournament, but really, have some care for an old goblet like me! And restrain yourselves! This choosing is not over yet!

But it seems that I am the only one that realizes this. Even Dumbledore himself behaves as if there are only three champions. Oh, dear, oh, dear. There is still the fourth champion; what shall I do? I cannot let the poor boy not compete, not when he put his name so assiduously inside me.

_"Excellent! Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real—"_

I must do it. Go, flames, go, send this final champion into the masses. It is a heavy burden to me, for with it I must live in doubt, and doubt is what ruins goblets like me.

The parchment sails away from me, and deadly silence befalls the hall. Inside, I am frantic, for I am now remembering—

Oh, dear gods. I have just committed an egregious error. The fire I contain is passing away into embers now, so my time here before I greet oblivion again is nearly over, but perhaps I can do something—

No, it is too late. I hear only silence as my state of wakefulness concludes and darkness hisses its customary welcome to me afresh.


End file.
